


above us, only stars

by oliverdalstonbrowning



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, Comfort Reading, Drabble, Established Relationship, Friendship/Love, M/M, One Shot, Post-Canon, Slice of Life, not as sad as the summary suggests
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:14:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23819026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliverdalstonbrowning/pseuds/oliverdalstonbrowning
Summary: Bard makes his annual journey to visit Thranduil, wondering if it will be his last.
Relationships: Bard the Bowman/Thranduil
Comments: 14
Kudos: 71





	above us, only stars

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short piece I chipped away at - I don't explore these two post canon very much and this little story just sort of came to me. I'm quietly really proud of it and I hope you enjoy it!

It was coming to the end of Spring, and the days were long and hazy. Bard prepared to journey west, packing a bag with food and sleeping furs.

“How long will you be gone?” his daughter asked, laying a head on his shoulder as they stood side-by-side at the kitchen table. The window was open before them, and they could see down into Dale’s public gardens, where people were walking amongst the trees and hedges.

Bard planted a kiss on his daughter’s forehead. When had she gotten so tall? He wondered to himself. Little Tilda had shot up in her teens, and was taller now than Sigrid. She carried herself with grace, and was no longer a rambunctious scamp running through the halls with skinned knees and thundering feet. She was a woman grown, and Bard couldn’t quite recall where all the years had gone.

His little family did not feel so little anymore.

“I do not know,” he said at last. “Does it concern you so much?”

“No,” said Tilda, turning to face her father, taking a hand in both of hers, which were soft and small. “Only, I wonder if you will come back this time. You go every summer, and you stay longer each year. Do you like it so much better over there?”

Bard frowned gently. “Do you resent me for it?”

“Not at all. But don’t you think it’s all a bit unfair?”

“Unfair to whom?”

“To everyone,” Tilda explained, gesturing vaguely. “The people grow tired of having two rulers – one for the summer, and one for winter. They deserve stability, and Sigrid deserves the chance to be queen, and take your place properly.”

“You think I ought to step down?” Bard’s heart grew heavy at the thought of his daughter succeeding him. He knew it was inevitable, but she was still so young. Though the youth of her years was no match for her courage and wisdom, it frightened Bard to realise how quickly his children were growing up.

“She worries what the people think of her. She's always the substitute, never the queen.”

“I never thought of it like that,” said Bard, tying his bag. “Do you think she’s ready?”

Tilda nodded earnestly. “She was born for it, da. Not like you. You’re always running from it.”

They both laughed.

“Very well,” said Bard. “It burdens me just as greatly to pass the crown to another as it does to wear it myself, but if you think it’s for the best.”

“We only want you to be happy, da, and for your people to flourish in the world you created for them. This is their home, and they will never forget who won it for them.”

Bard pressed another whiskery kiss to his daughter’s forehead. “They won it for themselves, darling. But you’re right, it is time I moved on.”

Bard hoisted his bag onto his shoulder and belted his sword, taking an apple from the basket on the table.

“Take care of your sister while I’m gone,” he said. “She works too hard even when I am here.”

Bard hugged his youngest daughter tightly, and she waved him goodbye from the door, calling out to him to have a safe journey. He glanced over his shoulder for one last look, feeling a tightness in his chest. Tilda waved again, her brown curls – so like his own – falling into her eyes. It was no easy thing to leave his children, though they were grown and took care of each other better than he ever had, but Bard knew he would see them again soon. Home was behind him now, but it would always be there, even after he was gone.

Bard retrieved his horse from the stable boy and led her on foot down the hill of the manor and into the bustling market streets of Dale. He knew Sigrid was there buying silk and lace for a new dress, and he found her at a cart selling ribbons from the Shire. She smiled on his approach, but her eyes lingered on his pack and saddle.

“Are you leaving?” she asked, breaking away from a tight embrace. She brushed the ribbons in her hand with her thumb sadly. “Do you know when you’ll return?”

“I don’t,” said Bard. “Before Autumn comes, for certain. You’ll send word if you hear from Bain, won’t you?”

Sigrid rolled her eyes, letting her hands fall in frustration. “If he ever stays still long enough to write, I’ll be sure all of Dale knows about it.”

Bard smiled at her kindly. “I hope he will come back to us soon. After so many years, he must have crossed Middle-Earth twice over.”

“He was staying with Lady Dís in the Iron Hills last we heard of him. Perhaps sooner than we think.”

“It would be nice to have him present for your coronation,” said Bard.

Sigrid blinked once and stared at her father, the spirit in her eyes sparkling. “My – my – Da, do you really mean it?”

Bard grinned, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “You shall be an Autumn queen, and may your days be blessed.”

Sigrid squealed and jumped into his arms.

“I hope to do you proud, da,” she said.

Bard gave her a squeeze. “You always have, and you always will.”

He slipped quietly out of Dale. Half the city still slept for their day of rest, while the other half trawled the market square, buying fresh food for their dinners. Bard departed on his horse without incident or notice, just the way he liked it.

He looked back once he was through the main gate. Dale stood tall against the still rising sun, casting its shadow over the western road. It was a city of thousands, and they had named Bard their king; their protector. What would he be when he returned? 

He knew it was the right decision for Sigrid to be queen. Whether it was now, or ten years hence, she would take over, and be far better at it than he ever was.

The road to the Greenwood was quiet that day. Bard came across only three other travelers, all merchants looking to spend the coming summer selling their wares in the cooler climate of the Lonely Mountain. Bard shared his food and talk with one of them – a rough-spoken man from the south – but otherwise heeded no other.

Because of this, he made very good time, and he was upon the Greenwood by sunset. Its overgrown trees grew sparsely here, though Bard could see ahead to their looming density. There was a strangeness in the boughs, made threatening and dangerous by the dark. But Bard knew it was only Elvish magic, and it did not frighten him.

There were still many miles to go north to the Woodland Realm, past the running river and through the trees on the Elven road. But Bard would not make that journey in the night. He set up camp in the shade of the forest, collecting fallen twigs and branches for a fire. Summer was approaching, but the nights were still cold, and there would be no shelter from it that night.

Bard dug sausages and tomatoes from his bag and skewered them over the fire, singing quietly to himself. Above him, the stars came out one-by-one to listen.

But the stars were not the only ones listening to Bard’s song – something crept among the dark shadows under the trees, silent and swift. Bard did not hear it approach until he felt a figure kneel down beside him, and his song came to an end.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he said, turning his food absent-mindedly over the fire. “What if I mistook you for a thief, and drew my knife?”

Bard caught Thranduil’s coy smile in the firelight. “Would you strike me, Dragonslayer?” he said.

“Perhaps, if I did not know you. But first, I might ask your name and your business.”

“I seek a lonely traveler to the Greenwood, for he carries treasure with him, and I should like to see him arrive with it safely.”

Bard raised an eyebrow. “And what treasure might that be?”

Thranduil leaned forward, pressing his mouth on Bard’s cheek close to his ear. “My heart,” he whispered.

Bard chuckled, facing Thranduil incredulously. “I have never known you to be so sweet.”

“I’ve missed you,” Thranduil said with a frown, drawing back. “You've kept me waiting.”

“Yet I'm here earlier than the year before,” said Bard, eyeing Thranduil kindly. “I’ve missed you very much as well.”

Thranduil smiled again. He sat with his legs crossed and turned his face to the fire, dancing his fingers among the higher flames. He was simply dressed, in brown breaches and a white tunic; garb for travel, not showing off, as he was wont to do. Bard liked him this way; just himself, not who he wanted others to perceive.

Bard retrieved his food from the skewer and found soft cheese and bread in his bag, offering some to Thranduil, who accepted.

For a while they ate in silence, and washed down their meal with mead from one of Bard’s skins.

Bard unrolled his bedding and lay down next to the fire. Thranduil joined him on the bare grass, his long hair shimmering silver in the moonlight. He propped himself up on an elbow, watching Bard intently.

“The stars heard you,” he said.

“When?” said Bard.

“When you were singing.”

“How do you know?”

“They told me.”

Bard looked up at Thranduil, extending a hand from where he lay to run his fingers through the long silver hair that trailed down over Thranduil’s shoulders. It was soft, like how he imagined clouds might feel, or fine silk. He trailed his fingers higher, touching the point of Thranduil’s long ears.

Thranduil seemed almost to glow in the light of the moon. Bard knew this little trick of the Elves – catching the light and holding it close – but it never failed to awe him. Thranduil was so fair and beautiful, and Bard wanted to know him forever.

Thranduil leaned down and they met each other with a kiss.

“What are the stars telling you now?” asked Bard.

“Nothing. They are only watching,” said Thranduil.

They kissed again, and Bard fell into a dream, though he did not recall sleeping. They were walking – he and Thranduil, together – among the trees, and the trees were made of starlight, and every step they took carried them across oceans.

When Bard woke, it was dawn. A thin fog smeared the pale orange of the horizon, but he did not feel its chill.

He got up and splashed his face with water. Thranduil was gone.

Bard was not concerned. He was long since accustomed to waking up alone, and he knew Thranduil would find him again soon.

Packing up his camp and eating the last of his bread and cheese, Bard saddled his horse and moved on. The Elven Road was still several miles north, and Bard reached it just before midday. It was different to when he had last been here; the wild and decaying trees had been cleared away, and new grass grew about the cobbled stones of the worn and weary path. A statue had been erected to help guide the way; an Elven lady carrying a water pot.

Bard dismounted and led his horse on foot to the path, guiding her carefully on the misshapen and deteriorating stones. She did not seem to fear the forest as some horses might, and this comforted Bard. They followed the way easily until they came to a fork in the trees, and turned right.

The forest opened up after a short time, and the path disappeared, but Bard knew the way. He mounted his horse again and he watched the movement of the sun through the canopy of leaves to ferry his way to the Woodland Realm.

It was getting on to sunset again when he heard a rustling in the branches above. He was not far now, and had decided he would not stop again for the night as he would make it to Thranduil’s home before midnight. But the curiosity of the trees gave Bard pause, looking up.

He watched the light shift between the leaves as something darted through them. Bard perhaps could not hear as well as he used to, but his eyes were still keen and sharp. He saw the silver of Thranduil’s hair before Thranduil himself leapt down from a branch, landing easily before Bard and his horse. The young mare nickered in annoyance, taking a few steps back in surprise.

“Haven’t you amused yourself enough?” Bard said airily.

“No. I will get you one day, I swear it,” said Thranduil with a laugh.

“Get me? You already have me,” said Bard.

Thranduil walked over, reaching out a friendly hand to the horse before swinging himself onto her back, wrapping his arms tight about Bard’s waist.

“Good,” he murmured.

They rode the rest of the way together, Thranduil pointing out new trees and blooming flowers. He was always excited to talk about the changes in his forest. With the spiders mostly gone, it flourished from north to south, and the trees grew taller than ever before, daring to touch the clouds. The deeper in they went, the less of the sky Bard could see. Yet the forest itself emitted a light of its own, and Bard could see all the paths through the trees, twisting and expanding with the earth. Sometimes, he thought he saw stars glittering in the leaves.

The moon had fully risen when they at last arrived at the Woodland Realm. Thranduil dismounted and led Bard and his steed through the tall main entrance, the guards who stood watch bowing to them as they entered. The horse was taken up a sloping path to a meadow where others animals slept and grazed. Bard loved Thranduil’s home; every path led somewhere different, even if you had taken that path before, and there were a hundred secrets to discover.

They supped in the kitchens, drinking too much and falling over each other. Bard was tired from the journey, but the food and drink lifted his spirits and kept his eyes open long into the night, until dawn crept in through the windows, and the birds outside welcomed another day.

Thranduil rarely slept, even when Bard was there, but after they climbed the many steps to his chambers, he clambered into the bed as well, and the waterfall outside sang them to sleep.

Bard slept long and heavily. When he woke, it was well into the afternoon, and Thranduil was gone again.

He rolled over, yawning lazily. He would normally feel guilty for sleeping so late, but time was slow and easy in the Greenwood, and it was hard to have a care. The sun was warm through the curtains and a gentle breeze swept in the smell of pine needles and berries.

Bard rose in his own time, unhurried and well-rested. He picked at a bowl of fruit on the dresser and found clothes to change into, humming to himself all the while. He was just beginning to think about having a bath drawn when Thranduil entered the room. He smiled when he saw that Bard was awake.

“Fancy a swim?” he asked.

They went downstairs, to the heart of the cavern that Thranduil had made his home. The Running River fell here, cascading into a clear pool. The afternoon sun streamed down into the water, casting the cave in golden light.

Bard got in carefully, fearful it would still be cold with remnants of winter. But it was surprisingly warm, and he sunk straight down, letting the water embrace him.

To his right, there was a great splash, and then Thranduil appeared beneath the water, grinning. His hair was all about him, and he swam over to Bard, pulling him into a kiss.

It might have been hours before they emerged; Bard could not tell. It did not seem as though the sunlight had shifted in all that time. He was flushed and warm, and didn’t mind at all.

He and Thranduil dressed and migrated to one of the many courtyards hidden beyond a passageway. Thranduil called for food and water and they sat beneath a maple tree. The spindly branches cast a playful shadow on the grass, and Thranduil’s eyes were a burst of colour beneath the leaves.

“Tell me things,” he said. “Your letters leave much to be desired.”

Bard smiled. “Whenever I sit down to write you, I suddenly forget everything that’s happened since my last visit. So much has changed, yet everything remains the same.”

Thranduil lay back on the grass, resting his head near to Bard so that he might look on him when he spoke. Bard told him all that he could recall – the clock tower was finally secured, Bain had spent several months in Rohan, Tilda was getting so many suitors that Bard no longer cared to know them before he turned them away, the Dwarves called for more council representatives, and Sigrid had adopted a stray litter of kittens. It all seemed trivial and needless, yet Thranduil drank in every word, smiling and laughing at Bard’s complaints and sighs. He was so easy to talk to; so eager to listen. Bard had not known such tenderness since before his wife had passed.

“I must ask, does Tilda not appreciate these requests for her hand?”

“She hates them,” Bard said with a laugh. “I humoured these poor boys for a time – and mind you, they were not all boys – until it was evident she would say no to every single one, regardless of their intent. I simply gave up. If she does not want to marry, I will not waste my time.”

“Perhaps her heart belongs to another?” Thranduil suggested.

“Not that I’ve heard, and I do not think she would keep such a thing from me.”

“The young can be strange and wilful.”

“Whatever the case, I’ll not pressure her to do anything she does not want. It is not my place,”

“You could if it is what you wished – you ought to secure successors to your throne beyond that of your children,” Thranduil pointed out.

Bard shrugged. “The people chose me as their king. They can choose another.”

“You are not like any other Man I’ve known,” said Thranduil. His blue eyes flicked over Bard’s face curiously. “I always thought it was important to keep one’s family in a position of power.”

“Being a leader doesn’t make you powerful, and any Man who believes otherwise is made vulnerable by that,” Bard said firmly. “A leader – be they king, queen, or even a ranger – is at the mercy of their people, and a good leader ought to know that. You can secure a lineage of kings and queens if you see it fit to do so, but there’s no guarantee of their honor or their strength.”

Thranduil smiled crookedly, evidently amused. “Do you think you’re a good king?”

Bard’s mind stilled at the question, for he did not know how to answer. Half the time, he forgave himself for forgetting that he was a king at all. For so many years he had only been a father. People named him otherwise – husband, bargeman, Dragonslayer, king – but they were fleeting titles compared to that of being a father.

But being king was like being a father; all his subjects were his to care for.

“I can’t say,” he finally admitted. “But I don’t think it matters anymore.”

“Why not?”

Bard looked down at Thranduil, trailing his fingers through his hair. “I’m stepping down. Sigrid will be queen after the summer.”

Thranduil sat up quite suddenly, and Bard drew back his hand in surprise.

“Are you serious?” Thranduil said sharply.

Bard nodded warily.

Thranduil sighed and tilted his head back irritably for a moment, muttering something under his breath. He looked again at Bard. “How will I suffer those damn Dwarves without you?”

Bard laughed, relief washing over him. “I’m sure Sigrid will handle the task admirably. She likes you very much, and I think she will appreciate your company at the trade meetings.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it. She will make a commendable queen,” said Thranduil, taking a handful of grapes from the tray of food that had mostly been left untouched. “But what will you do?”

Bard sipped his water, pondering. “I’ve seen little of Middle Earth. Perhaps I should go on an adventure – like Bilbo.”

Thranduil’s eyes rolled so far to the back of his head that all the blue disappeared. “That Halfling went on no adventure. It was a hairbrained suicide mission that cost countless lives!”

“Does he not still write you?” Bard interjected.

Thranduil glared, taking his own cup and pouring himself some water. “He does… Don’t change the subject, Bard. It was very dangerous what Thorin and the others got him swept up into. I’m still surprised he made it out alive. You ought not call it an adventure. I’ll not have our people’s grief made light of.”

“I’m sorry. A proper adventure then, without broken barrels and dragons,” Bard amended. “You could come with me.”

Thranduil grimaced from behind his cup. “I think my adventuring days are behind me. I’ve seen enough to last me a hundred lifetimes.”

“Do you not wish to feel young and reckless once again? Do you not miss the days of your youth?”

Thranduil set his cup down and a hint of sadness passed over his eyes. “Perhaps I do. But the world is not what it once was. I spent my first few hundred years chasing dragon scales and sacred gems. I watched Gondolin rise and fall and have seen more war than I care to recount. What lies in ruin in the south worries me still, and I would not leave my people to be struck down by it if it should rise again.”

Bard said nothing to this. He was not as old as Thranduil to recall a time before the shadow was overthrown in the south, and so perhaps he did not quite understand the darkness like Thranduil did. He had grown up on the stories of heroes and great kingdoms which stood in defiance of a much larger threat, but that was all. The battle for the mountain all those years ago had been but a taste of what Thranduil carried with him every day.

“Perhaps I will stay here, with you,” Bard offered after some silence.

Thranduil met his gaze and smiled. “I’d like that very much.”

Time in Greenwood the Great seemed to stand still. Bard lost count of the days and the hours, measuring his memories only with Thranduil’s smiles and gentle touches. It happened every time he visited, and each time it was harder to leave. There was a spell on the forest here, and Bard did not want to be released from it.

It was the first day of Summer, and the Elves were having a party. Bard had never visited during a time of celebration and he was intrigued at the preparations and excitement buzzing around him. He made a point to help, as he was tired of sitting around all day and doing nothing, but there was little he could do to make an impact. Thranduil watched from the sidelines in amusement as Bard struggled to keep up with the pace of the Elves who flitted and danced around him in their hurry to prepare the forest for the celebration.

It didn’t take him long before he gave up, and Thranduil stole him away down a deserted cavern corridor. He pressed Bard up against the wall beside a door.

“Shouldn’t _you_ be helping?” Bard accused, taking Thranduil’s hands in his own before they could wander. He noted the look in his eyes and knew he was up to mischief, and mischief usually involved Bard in some form of compromised position.

Thranduil fought him half-heartedly for freedom. “I will help later.”

“Is that so? How?”

“By eating and drinking.”

Bard laughed and yielded his grip on Thranduil’s hands. They immediately sought his shirt, nudging it out of the way as Thranduil’s lips flurried kisses down his neck in earnest. Bard was never one to give into temptation, but it was an entirely different story when he had no reason not to. His free hand sought the door handle to the adjacent room. They slipped inside and were lost for a few hours.

Later, they sat down amongst the trees to a feast of song and starlight to welcome the arrival of Summer. The day itself had been hot, but the evening was warm and inviting, and Bard sat in a place of honor beside Thranduil. They hardly kept their eyes off each other, even as the food came and went and the songs changed from lively to raucous in the wake of wine and mead.

All about them the Elves danced in the light of the fires, and the night came alive with their flutes and drums. Bard was wine drunk and dazed, and he did not protest when Thranduil coaxed him to dance. They found a secluded spot beneath a beech tree and the music slowed. Bard lay his head on Thranduil’s shoulder as they swayed slowly and dreamily to the distance harps. Their bare feet moved against the warm, green earth, and above them, only stars, peaking through the boughs of the trees.

Bard felt Thranduil’s hands move to his back, and he closed his eyes at the touch. He could not remember a time when he was this content. He never knew love could be this easy.

In the morning, Bard woke late again, and his head felt heavy and sore. Rubbing his weary eyes, he turned over and was amazed to see Thranduil still lying asleep beside him, his silver hair tousled on the pillow in the sunlight. He breathed deeply and evenly, and his eyes were closed, which Bard knew was unusual for Elves.

He reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from Thranduil’s cheek; any excuse to touch him. Thranduil stirred, and his eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the light coming through the open window. With a deep inhale, he turned in the bed and stretched, smiling when he saw Bard hovering over him.

“I’ve never woken up with you before,” Bard said quietly, unable to speak clearly in the still of the morning.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Would you like me to leave?” Thranduil snarked.

“No!” Bard let his body fall gently into Thranduil’s arms, burying his face into the pillow at the crook of Thranduil’s neck. “This is much better.”

Thranduil chuckled, and Bard felt it vibrate through his chest. He lifted his head to look at Thranduil again, and their eyes met.

“You’ve not aged, you know?” Thranduil murmured.

Bard frowned, leaning his head back slightly to fully take in Thranduil’s expression, but he couldn’t read it.

“I haven’t?”

“You look the same as you did when you first visited me, and it’s been many years since then.”

“Not so many. Only seven.”

“My point remains,” Thranduil said.

Bard shook his head with a smile. “Men don’t age that fast, you know.”

Thranduil’s brow furrowed in defiance. “I may have only one eye, but it is sharper than both of yours, Dragonslayer, and I see changes in Men after only a year. You do not have any changes.”

Bard rolled onto his back in defeat, pondering the canopy of the bed. The silk curtains danced gently in the breeze, rolling through the air like waves.

He had to admit he thought he’d have a few more grey hairs by now, but they were all still black, and any that were grey had not been replaced after falling out. He was nearing his fiftieth year, and even the common folk in Dale remarked at his health and good looks despite the pressure of becoming a king, which was known to accelerate one’s ageing process. He could not say it troubled him, but there was something not right about it all the same.

He turned over to face Thranduil again.

“What do you think it means?”

Thranduil raised a hand to scratch his chin thoughtfully. The gemstone ring on his forefinger sparkled richly, averting Bard’s gaze to it.

“I don’t know,” Thranduil said at last. “I’ve given it a great deal of thought as of late, but it is quite the mystery. I can’t say I’ve met anyone like you, Bard.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” Bard said indignantly.

Thranduil laughed. He sat up and crawled on top of Bard, pressing warm, sleepy kisses to his chest and neck. Bard sighed and smiled, running his hands through the tangles of Thranduil’s hair. He wished every morning could be this way; white sheets bathed in summer, and the waterfall singing through the cavern window. He wanted to be lost forever in the Greenwood; taken by the magic of the trees and rushing rivers. Let the wars rage and the shadows lie in wait, he thought, for what harm could they do him here? An age could pass them by, and Bard would not have noticed, nor cared. The forest was beautiful, and Thranduil was beautiful, and Bard thought that maybe, just this once, he deserved some peace and quiet, now that all the fighting was done.

He wrapped his arms around Thranduil and tugged the sheets over them, breathing in the leafy, clean smell of Thranduil’s skin. The sunlight filtered through the fine cotton, framing them in a pale glow, and every time they kissed, the stars sighed.


End file.
